Rise of the Peerless God of War

Chapter 5

Draven couldn't sleep.

He'd been lying in bed for hours, listening to Jin's steady breathing and staring at the ceiling like it might have answers carved into it. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the platform. Heard the whispers. Felt the crushing weight of everyone's expectations turning into pity.

"Please step down from the platform."

The words kept echoing in his head like a curse.

At some point after midnight, he gave up trying to sleep and slipped out of bed. Jin didn't stir—the guy could probably sleep through a dragon attack. Draven pulled on his clothes as quietly as he could and crept out of the room.

The academy halls were different at night. Quieter, but not silent. Magic never really slept here. Crystals in the walls glowed softly to light the way, and he could hear the distant hum of protective wards. Sometimes a shadow moved that didn't belong to anything, or a breeze stirred without any wind to cause it.

Even the building has more magic than I do.

Draven wandered aimlessly through the corridors, not really sure where he was going. Just away from his room, away from the reminder of how badly he'd failed today.

He ended up in a part of the academy he hadn't seen before—older, with rougher stone and fewer magical conveniences. The crystals here were dimmer, and the air felt heavier somehow. More solemn.

That's when he heard them.

Whispers.

Not the kind of whispers he'd been hearing all day—cruel words meant to hurt. These were different. Softer. Sadder. Like voices calling from very far away.

What the hell?

Draven followed the sound down a narrow corridor that ended in a heavy wooden door. No crystal lights here, just moonlight streaming through a small window. The whispers were coming from beyond the door.

The door wasn't locked. It opened with a soft creak that made him wince, but no one came running to investigate. Beyond it was a garden unlike anything he'd ever seen.

It was circular, maybe a hundred feet across, surrounded by high stone walls covered in ivy. Ancient trees spread their branches overhead, their leaves rustling in a breeze that felt different from ordinary wind—sadder somehow, like it carried memories. Stone paths wound between carefully tended flower beds, and in the center stood a simple monument, a tall pillar of black stone carved with names.

Hundreds of names.

The whispers were stronger here, though he still couldn't make out words. They seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, like the garden itself was trying to tell him something.

This has to be the Memorial Garden Jin mentioned. Where they bury the academy's heroes.

Draven walked slowly down one of the paths, reading the small plaques beside each flower bed. Names and dates. "Captain Marcus Hale, died defending the Northern Pass." "Professor Elena Brightwater, gave her life protecting students during the Goblin War." "Sir Thomas Ashworth—"

Draven stopped dead.

Ashworth?

He knelt beside the plaque, brushing away some fallen leaves. "Sir Thomas Ashworth, Knight of the Realm, died in service to the crown and academy. A true hero whose sacrifice will not be forgotten."

Great-uncle Thomas. Dad's older brother. I never knew he was buried here.

The pendant against his chest was warm. Not uncomfortable, just... present. Like it was trying to get his attention.

Draven stood and continued walking, drawn toward the central monument. The whispers were getting stronger with each step, though they still sounded like voices in a distant room.

The black stone pillar was covered in names from top to bottom, arranged in no order he could figure out. Some were recent, others so old the carved letters were barely visible. At the base of the monument, words were carved in large, flowing script:

"Here rest the souls of those who gave everything in service of others. Their deeds live on in memory, their valor echoes through time. Though death has claimed their bodies, their spirits guard this place still."

The pendant was getting warmer. And the whispers...

The whispers were getting clearer.

"...remember us..."

"...don't let it be for nothing..."

"...someone has to carry on..."

Draven's breath caught in his throat. He wasn't imagining it. There were actual voices coming from the garden. From the graves.

This is insane. Dead people don't talk.

But the pendant was burning against his chest now, and the voices were becoming more distinct.

"...young Ashworth..."

"...he has the gift..."

"...he can hear us..."

"Who's there?" Draven called out, his voice barely above a whisper. "I can hear you. What do you want?"

The garden fell silent.

Then, all at once, it exploded with sound.

Voices. Dozens of them. Hundreds. All talking at once, desperate to be heard.

"Help us!"

"Remember!"

"Take our strength!"

"The knowledge must survive!"

Draven staggered backward, clutching his head. The voices were inside his skull now, pressing against his thoughts like a flood trying to burst through a dam.

"Fight like I fought!"

"Know what I knew!"

"Live as we lived!"

The pendant was burning now, actually burning against his skin. Draven yanked it out from under his shirt, and it blazed with silver light that turned the entire garden bright as day.

The voices became a roar. And then—

Pain.

Sword through his chest. Can't breathe. Blood everywhere.

But he has to warn them. Has to tell them about the ambush in the pass.

His hand finds his sword one last time. The techniques his father taught him, the forms he'd practiced since childhood. All of it burning into memory as darkness closes in.

"Remember," he whispers. "Someone has to remember."

Another voice. A woman's.

Arrows through her back. She's protecting the children, buying them time to escape.

The wind magic flows through her even as she dies, creating barriers, deflecting attacks. Every technique she ever learned, every secret of air and storm, flooding into consciousness.

"Take it," she gasps. "Take all of it. Use it better than I did."

More voices. More deaths. More techniques and knowledge and desperate final thoughts.

A knight's last charge, his sword work perfect even as the enemy overwhelms him.

A mage's final spell, earth magic that saves a city but costs her life.

A healer who gives everything to save others, his knowledge of the body's mysteries intact even as his own body fails.

Dozens of them. All pouring their memories, their skills, their final moments into him.

Draven collapsed to his knees on the stone path, screaming.

The flood of memories was too much. Too many lives, too many deaths, too much knowledge trying to cram itself into his head all at once. He could feel his mind stretching, threatening to snap under the pressure.

This is going to kill me. I'm going to die here, and no one will ever know what happened.

But just as he thought he couldn't take any more, the pendant's light began to fade. The voices grew quieter. The crushing weight of all those memories settled into something more manageable—still enormous, but no longer threatening to destroy him.

Draven found himself lying on the path, staring up at the stars through the tree branches. His whole body ached like he'd been beaten with hammers, and his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton.

But he knew things now.

So many things.

How to hold a sword properly—not just one way, but dozens of different grips for different situations. Footwork patterns that would let him dance around heavier opponents. Fighting techniques from across the kingdom and beyond.

Magic theory he'd never studied. The way elemental forces flowed through the world. How to read the signs of power in others.

History that wasn't in any book—personal accounts of battles and disasters, of heroes and villains, of the way the world really worked when you stripped away the pretty stories.

And underneath it all, burning like a coal in his chest, was something else.

Fire.

Not magic fire—not yet. But the knowledge of fire. The understanding of how it worked, how it moved, how it could be shaped and controlled. Like someone had handed him the instruction manual for a power he didn't quite have yet.

What the hell just happened to me?

Draven struggled to his feet, swaying slightly. The garden was quiet again, though he could still sense the presence of the spirits. Watching. Waiting.

The pendant had returned to its normal dark color, but it felt different now. Heavier. More alive. Like it was a part of him in a way it hadn't been before.

Grandfather's note. "The dead never truly die. Their echoes live on in those brave enough to listen."

This is what he meant. This pendant doesn't just store memories—it connects me to them. To everyone who's ever died fighting for something they believed in.

The implications hit him like a physical blow.

I'm not powerless. I'm just... different. Instead of one element, I have access to the knowledge and skills of everyone who's ever been buried here.

It was incredible. Impossible. And absolutely terrifying.

Because with great power came great responsibility, and Draven wasn't sure he was ready for either.

But as he stood there in the moonlight, surrounded by the graves of heroes, he felt something he hadn't felt since the awakening ceremony.

Hope.

Real hope.

Not the desperate, thin hope he'd been clinging to for months. Solid, burning hope that maybe—just maybe—he wasn't the family disappointment after all.

Tomorrow's going to be interesting.

The walk back to his dorm felt different. His steps were more confident, his head held higher. The knowledge in his mind was still settling, organizing itself into useful patterns, but already he could feel the difference.

He knew how to fight now. Really fight, not just swing a sword around and hope for the best. He understood magic theory better than some of the advanced students. He had tactical knowledge that could win battles.

I can't wait to see Marcus Thornfield's face when he realizes the hollow prince isn't so hollow after all.

Jin was still asleep when Draven slipped back into their room, though he stirred slightly as the door closed.

"Draven?" Jin mumbled without opening his eyes. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Draven said, and for the first time since coming to the academy, he meant it. "I'm okay."

Better than okay, actually. But Jin didn't need to know about that yet.

Not until I figure out how much of this power I can actually use.

Draven lay back down and closed his eyes, letting the new memories wash over him like a gentle tide. So many voices, so many stories. So much knowledge just waiting to be used.

Thank you, he thought toward the garden, toward the spirits who had given him their gifts. I won't waste this.

I won't let you down.

For the first time in months, Draven fell asleep with a smile on his face.

And if his dreams were filled with the memories of heroes, well, that was just fine with him.